


a little something more

by SuburbanSun



Category: Ted Lasso (TV)
Genre: Americanisms, Bonding, Cultural Differences, Friendship, Gen, Yuletide Treat, post-Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/pseuds/SuburbanSun
Summary: In the wake of a brutal press conference about AFC Richmond’s relegation, Ted and Rebecca commiserate over Scotch and s’mores.
Relationships: Ted Lasso & Rebecca Welton
Comments: 32
Kudos: 75
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	a little something more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heyoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyoh/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide!

Ted stares down into his bottom drawer, the one filled with soft, plaid flannel and faded fleece. Then he shoves it all aside. If ever there were a night cut out for the rattiest, most worn out, most comfortable sweatpants he owns, Ted thinks, it’s tonight.

His plan is to post up on the sofa, crack a beer or six, and try to forget about everything for a little while. Forget relegation, forget he’d ended up on the wrong side of the pond, so to speak. Forget all about that damned press conference and the faces of the reporters who tutted and frowned like they’d known how this would end up all along. 

Tomorrow, he’ll figure out what comes next, how they’re gonna claw their way back into the league and show everybody the stuff AFC Richmond is made of. 

But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, he’s gonna drink warm lager alone in the holiest sweatpants he owns and feel good and sorry for himself. 

The knock at the door says otherwise.

He swings it open to find Rebecca on the other side, still in her crisp Chanel blazer and heels. She’s got a bottle of Scotch— the good stuff, he notes— dangling from one manicured hand, and tilts her head ever so slightly to the side as she takes him in.

“In for the night, I see.” 

Ted puffs out a breath, then steps to the side to let her in. “What, these? My fancy sweats are at the dry cleaners.” He shuts the door and watches her move about his apartment, making herself at home. She finds the correct cabinet on the second try and pulls out a pair of rocks glasses.

“You disappeared after the press conference,” she says, pouring them each two fingers of whisky. Before he can respond, she thinks the better of it and adds a third. 

He shrugs one shoulder. “That’s a nice way of putting it. I’d say I hightailed it outta there like my feet were on fire.” He takes her proffered glass and sips it. It’s the _really_ good stuff, and when he winces, it’s not because of the burn. “I’m sorry about that. That I left like that. I know I should’ve stuck around. Not like I’ve never faced a firing squad before. I just…”

Rebecca leans back against his kitchen counter and crosses one arm neatly over her stomach, the elbow of her drink hand resting on her fist. “No apologies, Ted. That was fucking wretched.” She sighs, then takes a long pull of her Scotch. “If we thought they’d been out for blood when you first turned up, well.” She scoffed. “The nerve of some of them! And that Trent fellow! From—”

“—the Independent,” Ted finishes. “Eh, he’s not so bad.” 

She clucks her tongue. “They’re a passel of washed-up, envious cretins. ‘The Fourth Estate,’ my arse.” 

Ted chuckles. He likes to see Rebecca when she gets like this, her hair just a bit out of place, pink in her cheeks. She’s a real firecracker in a country that doesn’t even celebrate the Fourth of July. 

“You laugh now,” she says, swirling her glass. “Just wait ‘til your name’s been dragged through those rags as much as mine has. You’ll develop a healthy disdain for the press.”

“Well, hey, so long as it’s healthy.”

She narrows her eyes at him, then lets her head fall back against the wooden cabinet door with a light thump. “Ted,” she groans. “Why did you make me care about this blasted team? I was doing just fine before you showed up.” 

“I believe you pay me a salary to make people care about this ‘blasted team’.” He puts his finger quotes to good use around the epithet. 

Rebecca laughs, a single peal punched out of her like she didn’t see it coming. “Don’t say that. When _you_ say it, you sound like Yosemite Sam.” 

“Are you implying I don’t always sound a little bit like Yosemite Sam to you?” 

She considers him. “Fair point.” Sniffing, she peers around his kitchen. “Do you happen to keep any food around here? I’m afraid this won’t be pretty on an empty stomach,” she adds, gesturing with her glass. 

Ted rustles around in the fridge for a minute, pushing aside three different kinds of mustard, before remembering the care package from Henry and Michelle back home, still sitting on the living room floor where he’d opened it the previous afternoon. He grins at her. “I’ve got an idea.” 

Moments later, he’s got a box of graham crackers, a Hershey bar the size of his face, and a bag full of jumbo marshmallows lined up on the countertop. 

“Ted, what the hell is any of this?” 

“This,” he says, ripping into the bag of marshmallows with his teeth. “Is my little man Henry’s favorite cheer-up treat.” 

Rebecca furrows her brow and reaches in to pluck up a marshmallow. She squeezes it gently between her thumb and index finger. “You just… feed him marshmallows? These are basically pure sugar, you know.” 

“‘Course not,” Ted answers with a shrug. “We’re American, but we’re not crazy.” 

“Arguable.” 

“Nah, they’re not as good solo. Gotta package ‘em up in a s’more, like this.” He tears open a sleeve of graham crackers and the Hershey bar, starting to assemble a pair of makeshift s’mores on a paper plate.

She’s watching him warily, like he might be trying to trick her. “Aren’t s’mores those things American teenagers make around a campfire at summer camp in the movies, before they get chased around by a crazed killer, or something like that?” 

Ted beams. “One and the same! Well, minus the murder part, usually.” He balances a second graham cracker on top of each s’more to finish them off. “When he was six, I was the assistant Scoutmaster for Henry’s Cub Scout troop. We took the boys camping— you know, just in somebody’s backyard, so they could get a taste of it without actually having to rough it.” He carries the plate carefully to the microwave and pops it in. “We made ‘em s’mores around the campfire after dinner, and Henry ate so many of ‘em, he puked all over our tent later on that night.” He smiles to himself, remembering the way the nylon fabric stank, even after a thorough cleaning. The microwave dings, and jars him from his memory.

“And this is supposed to be an appetizing story, is it?” Rebecca asks, still flummoxed. 

“Oh yeah. Little guy just couldn’t hold his s’mores. Doesn’t mean he didn’t love ‘em. To this day, he still asks for one whenever he’s feeling down.” He holds up the plate, nodding for her to take one. “‘Course, they’re better straight off the stick and a little bit burned, but in a pinch, these’ll do.” 

Rebecca looks as if he might be actively trying to poison her, but to her credit, she picks up a s’more with one hand, cupping the other beneath it to catch any errant crumbs. “How does one eat one of these things?”

Ted’s mouth is already full, bits of chocolate and marshmallow sticking in the corners of his lips as he chews. “Just bite into it. Go on. You can do it. I believe in you.” 

She gives him a look. “Well, if it brings back that old Lasso optimism, at least, I suppose I must...” She tips the s’more toward him in a toast, then takes a dainty bite. Her eyes widen, just a little, but he spots it, and grins around his second big mouthful. 

“Good?”

Rebecca swallows, wiping just under her mouth with her free hand. “I don’t know why I’m surprised, given your penchant for high-quality biscuits.”

“Knew it.” He polishes off the last of his s’more, licking a bit of goo from his thumb. “We Americans know about two things— American football—” 

“—and brashness?” she interjects as she dusts graham cracker crumbs from her hands. 

“Well, okay, three things. The third being handheld desserts. Seriously, I’ve gotta take you to a state fair sometime. All the handheld, deep-fried sweets you can eat.” 

She hums, maybe in agreement, maybe just in thought. “Well, in the meantime… your Henry has the right idea. I do feel a bit buoyed.” She steps out of her heels and picks them up, nodding toward the living room. “What do you say, Ted? Shall we strategize over more Scotch? Sort out how we’re going to turn this thing around next season?”

Ted smiles at her, nice and easy. He's got the zip of a sugar high and the buzz of the whisky, and feels like maybe he’s glad he won't be spending his night alone. “You grab the bottle, I’ll get the glasses.” 

Rebecca nods once and pads out of the kitchen, stopping just before she reaches the doorway to turn around. “And Ted?”

“Mmhmm?” 

There’s a glint of mischief in her eye. “Perhaps you could whip up another round of those delicious treats for us?” 

“Oh, yeah?” His grin widens. “You want s’more? S’more s’mores?” 

She rolls her eyes at him, then heads for the living room. Ted’s still in the middle of his kitchen, barefoot in his oldest pair of sweats, a paper plate clutched in his hand. “S’more.” He cocks his head to the side and frowns. “S’more. S’mooore. Wait— s’more. Aw, heck.”


End file.
